She gives a sniff. “I have a full and busy life,” she says, as if reciting a phrase she’s heard spoken by adults. “There are lessons in the morning. After that, lute practice with my tutor. Lunch with the household, often with visitors. Painting, after lunch – I’m working on a portrait of Min-Min at the moment,” she confides to the lion. “Usually we go out for a walk in the afternoon, or visit friends.”

None of that sounds very interesting to me. More like time-wasting. “You’re not visiting anybody today,” I point out, picking at a scab on my knee.

“No,” says Emee, “and that’s because my aunt is a little poorly. She’s got one of her headaches and is lying down.”

The dog stretches up to sniff at me, its front paws clicking on the stone. I hold out my hand to pet it, but it skitters away.

“And what do you do all day?” she asks.

“This and that.” I shrug. Trying to find food on the street for the family, chopping fuel for the wood stove, weeding and digging the garden in the inner courtyard. Emee isn’t going to be interested in any of those things.

“We’re going to a ball tonight. My aunt had me fitted for a dress especially.” She might be preening, or boasting, yet I detect a sour note underneath. “We shall probably be out all night.”

“That doesn’t sound like much fun to me.”

“Well, I don’t suppose it would – to a Cerel boy.”

“Will the Director be there?”

A pause, and another glance at the lion. “Of course,” she says. “He goes to all the best functions. I have met him several times. In fact …” She trails off, as if she realises she’s about to reveal too much.

I concentrate on my scab to avoid giving anything away. “What’s he like?”

An airship floats overhead, casting a purple shadow across the steps. Emee is frowning, thinking. “Oh, he is, how shall I put it? He is several things, all at once … not like anybody else I know.” By the tone of her voice it sounds like this is a subject she often considers. “He can be very charming, especially to women like my aunt, and they all think he is gorgeous.”

I turn the foreign word over in my mind: gorgeous.

“He can also be very, um, hard.” She flips me a look, her lips parted. “Once,” she says breathlessly, “I saw him slap a man across the face.”

“Really?” Don’t know why that would be impressive; I’ve seen much worse.

“Yes, really! It was at a party. The man had said something silly, I suppose, and the Director slapped him hard across the cheek. There was a moment of utter silence, and then everybody just carried on as if nothing had happened. It was brilliant.”

“Has he got children?”